by Meg Cowley
Barclay paused.
“I know how difficult it may be; how counterintuitive. I say what I said before: I know things not privy to most. I act with reason, and in Caledan’s best interests, always. Now, more than ever, it is crucial to find a way forward. Believe me, I have tried to find another solution. The only way is to ally with the Eldarkind and the dragons. At least, those who remain on the side of good. Those who attack us are not one and the same. The alliance would be primarily to seek their defeat in the short term. As my subject, my advisor, and my friend, will you trust me in this?”
Soren could see the indecision in Barclay’s eyes and the instinct to say no. It danced on the tip of Barclay’s tongue, as his lips parted to give his answer, and then paused.
“Yes,” said Barclay at last. His tone was not convincing, and the set of his jaw betrayed his concern, but Soren would take that for now. Once given, he knew Barclay’s word was good. He hoped he could still trust that.
Soren found himself wandering aimlessly through the castle, lost deep in thought, until he arrived at the archives where all the castle’s records were kept under lock and key. He let himself into the dark room and stood for a moment. A deep sigh escaped. I must find a way to rebuild the pact.
“There must be some written record of how it was achieved,” he mused aloud. He looked around. It was the first time he had ever visited, and he was surprised by the size of the room before him. What he had expected to be a broom cupboard, going by the diminutive size of the door, was, in fact, a tall, airy space in one of the castle voids.
It was filled with crooked shelves right to the ceiling, which was lost in the gloom, and ran to his left and right in between the castle’s interior walls. It was a gloomy place, dark and forgotten, with a thick silence that was hard to break. It was dark, too. The only light came from lanterns that had not been cleaned in many years, and they burned dim and faint. Soren paced slowly, running his hand along the spines of a row of books, reading their titles as he passed. Every shelf was filled with heavy old tomes and countless stacked and bundled sheaves of papers.
“May I assist you, Your Majesty?”
Soren jumped out of his skin at the noise and spun around, grasping the shelf for support. Before him stood the wizened old record keeper standing four feet tall, an ankle-long beard tucked into his belt, and a robe that drowned him.
“Y… yes,” said Soren, with a cough, to cover his surprise. Inspiration struck. He should know this place well! “Show me where the oldest records are kept.”
The old man hobbled to an antechamber with Soren close in tow. A door so small Soren had to bend over almost double led into a pitch black space. Light blossomed over the cupboard as Soren passed a lantern in. It was cold, Soren noticed, distinctly chilly, and it smelt old, of things that had lain for an age, gathering dust and mould.
“Is there anything in particular you wish to see, Sire?” wheezed the record-keeper into his handkerchief.
“Do you have any records on the pact?” Soren kept his tone intentionally light.
The record keeper’s nose scrunched and his bushy eyebrows wriggled. “Which one, Sire?”
“Ah, I’m not sure,” said Soren, feigning ignorance, and suppressing his disappointment. Of all the agreements made, if the old man didn’t recognise mention of ‘the’ pact, he did not know anything, Soren surmised. “That will be all. You may return to your duties. Thank you for your assistance.”
The old man bowed and backed away with a curious glint in his eye, leaving Soren alone in the tiny room.
He searched through every document in there with painstaking slowness; some of the documents were so old they cracked as he opened them, threatening to fall apart. He searched until the day was late and dust caked him from head to toe, but it was fruitless. He could find nothing that mentioned the Eldarkind, dragonkin, or pact of any kind. As he shut the last tome with a huff of frustration, he admitted defeat for the day.
Chapter Nineteen
“Oh thank goodness!” Luke cried from the wall as Eve plodded towards Arlyn gates on her weary mount. She was just as exhausted, having not even slept in the saddle as she rode home without delay after the horrors she had witnessed at Ednor. She heard his voice, but did not have the energy to lift her head, and only when he appeared beside her to grab the reins and help her slide from the horse, did she see the consternation upon his face at her poor state.
“I was so worried!” he fretted. “What happened? Are you okay?”
She didn’t answer. Her throat was parched dry and she could not find the words. Instead, she reached for him and buried herself into his chest, breathing in the scent of leather and horses, which made the most welcome change from the stench of fire and death that had clung to her for days. As she shook with exhaustion, she finally allowed the tiredness to overtake her.
“I need a healer,” she croaked, and clutched at him as her legs buckled. He steadied her in strong arms.
With help, he escorted her back to the keep, shouting for assistance as they arrived in the courtyard. Maids arrived and an outcry arose at the poor state of their mistress. A healer appeared, and Eve was put to bed. Luke hovered about awkwardly, not allowed into the room, but not wanting to leave. As the door opened and closed with each new visitor, Eve saw him peering in, but she didn’t have the energy to smile.
They undressed her from the clothes she had worn since the attack, and her body was as sooty, blackened, and burnt as her garments. Her skin was festered with blisters, pale and infected, and she could not hold back the screams as they peeled the scraps of fabric away, for they had fused with her skin, which was red, white, and oozing.
Worst of all were her arms. The healers tried to clean her as best they could, but the soot in her wounds caused even more pain as they tried to rid her of it, to the point where she nearly fainted due to the white-hot pain every touch overloaded her senses with.
Luke’s face peered through the gap once more as a maid scurried out to fetch honey, lavender oil, and cloths. She was soon back. The soaked cloths were a cold relief against the hot fury of her skin and the lavender’s scent masked all traces of fire and pus. Hands held up her limbs, body, and even her face as they wrapped her in the cloths, and she knew this would be her fate for weeks without magic, but she had not the strength to perform the magic needed to heal her burns, so extensive as they were and as tired as she felt.
Eve did not have to see the rest of her body to know it would be marred with a multitude of scars, magical healing or not, but that was a thought for another day. For now, she had to do battle with the burns that already began to angrily sting again as the cooling effects of her bandages wore away.
Last of all, they brought in sheep-shearers. Her hair was all but gone; they roughly chopped it at the shoulders and burnt chunks littered the floor. Her eyebrows were gone, too, they told her; but they were blonde to start with, she reasoned in her quiescent state. It was a little loss compared to all else.
Like a child, she tipped her chin back to accept the draught: a sleeping potion infused with pain-easing remedies. Within minutes, she sank into blissful slumber; a haven away from the pain.
~
Eve awoke to Luke sat at her bedside, with his gaze boring into her. He started as she opened her eyes and sat up from his slouch. “Eve! Welcome back.”
“Water.”
He hurried to hold the cup to her lips and tip it so she could drink the cool, refreshing water. She savoured every drop flowing down her parched throat and lay unmoving as he returned the cup to the side-stand, testing out her senses. The pain had dulled, but returned with a vengeance as she attempted a twitch. Waves of exhaustion still rolled over her.
She had not expected her return to be so. She had dreaded seeing Luke again for one, still unsure what to say, but he seemed to have forgotten their quarrel for now.
“What happened?” asked Luke. “When you didn’t scry, I was so worried.”
In a dull monotone
, Eve explained haltingly, and in as few words as she could, of the dragon attack on Ednor, and how death, fire, and fear like she had never known came upon them in the night. “I barely escaped with my life. I’ve never been so scared before. I don’t know which is worse: the dragons or the fire.”
“I’m so glad you’re here. You’re safe now. I’m sorry I didn’t take you seriously.”
Eve nodded. They fell into silence. What more could be said? Their previous quarrel seemed trivial in light of what had happened, but it still nagged at her. “When you said I abandoned you,” she said slowly. “Did you mean that?”
“I–” Luke looked away. “It’s hard at times to know,” he mumbled. “I asked you to leave, but I didn’t want you to. Would you have come back for me?”
Her instinct was to laugh off his question because to her it was ridiculous, but she could sense he was serious. “Of course.” There’s more to this. “Why would you think anything else?”
Silence lengthened between them.
“I suppose I spent so much time chasing after you, that I never stopped to wonder if you would do the same for me.”
Realisation dawned on Eve. “And you were hurt that I didn’t return for you—personally.”
Luke’s silence was her answer.
“And that made you doubt everything between us.”
“Sometimes… Sometimes, I do doubt this will work.” He gestured between them. “Look at us.”
“It doesn’t matter. After all we have been through.” She shook her head. “I can think of no one I would rather be with. Your rank doesn’t matter; neither does mine. To me, you’re Luke. Just Luke. My Luke; and I would have returned for you the moment I could.”
“Thank you,” he muttered, and his hand shook slightly as he placed it atop her bandaged fingers. The pressure made her burnt skin scream with pain, but she did not flinch, instead, savoring the feeling of peace between them once more.
“I’m so relieved you’re safe,” he said. Eve could see the frustration within him; at himself for not heeding her warning.
“You couldn’t have known,” she said. A thought struck her, and she bolted upright, shuddering as pain ripped through her. “The dragons could be coming here! I must warn everyone! We must prepare!”
Luke tried to stop her from moving, but her entire body was covered in burns and bandages, and he was loathe to touch her. “You cannot get up—you must rest.”
“There’s no time, Luke. If Ednor falls… even if it doesn’t, we might be their next target. Their attacks are already rife across east Caledan. The west could be next.” She ignored his protests and forced her legs to swing over the side of the bed, dangling until her toes brushed the floor. For a moment, she paused, gasping, and shook her head until the feeling of passing out faded.
“Help me,” she commanded.
Luke rushed to her side and gingerly supported her as she staggered to the door. “Where are you going?”
“To the forest,” she said through gritted teeth. Stars danced before her eyes and her skin crawled with irritation and pain. Eve ignored Luke’s protests and pushed forwards so he had no choice but to help her. Strange looks followed them as they moved excruciatingly slowly through the keep and out into the gardens, for she wore only her nightgown which billowed in the breeze.
Every movement hurt: the ache of the long ride and the increasing agony of the burns. As Luke opened the door, Eve sighed in relief as the cold air froze her skin. She held onto Luke doggedly and started up the hill, through the herb gardens and into the forest. They moved at a snail’s pace and out of sight of all Arlyn past the tree line until they came upon a clearing. Eve let go and sunk to the floor with a moan. Luke cried out and moved to raise her to her feet, but she stopped him with a sharp slash of her hand.
“Stand back,” she warned.
The sodden ground welcomed her. Water soaked through her garments and in seconds, her cloak was drenched. It was cold and foggy, too. Now, the cold was not a comfort, but a leech. Eve shivered with cold and nervous anticipation.
She buried her hands into the freezing, wet mosses that carpeted the forest floor, entwining her fingers in the soft fronds and took a deep, steadying breath before she began to call the magic forth. Carefully selecting the energy of the large beings of the land in her mind—trees, fungi, and that which would not be weakened by her needs—she called out in the old tongue.
“Ia kvedja a ethera ro feld att mina ethera endurnyja, mina sarr laekna, ja min heild endr efla. Nema adeins a ethera etrele ja jurta spenna, ja inge skada einhevrr lifanti hlutur fram mina coinsiasa.”
I call forth the energy of the land to replenish my energy, heal my wounds, and make me whole again. Take only that energy which can be spared of the trees and the plants and bring no harm to any living being on my conscience.
Magic crawled up her arms from the ground, visible if she half closed her eyes, coiling and trailing over her skin. It was an angry tingle at first contact that subsided into a soothing caress as the magic took hold. A sigh of relief escaped her lips as the agony subsided and her energy grew as the spell replenished it.
It could have been minutes or hours, she had no concept of time, only feeling, as the magic staved off the cold biting into her from her sodden clothes, and banished the stinging burns. The pain faded, and her aches dissolved. Eve felt her well of energy grow again until she no longer felt dulled by exhaustion, and relished in the feeling of sharp clarity and focus.
As the magic faded, she waited, until the last drops had gone, and then she stood. Taking a deep breath and filling her lungs with the pure air of the forest, which now felt refreshing instead of bitingly cold, she remained standing, and still, with her eyes closed, mentally checking every part of her body. All was well. Her hands flew to her hair. It had not grown back, but little had she expected that.
Eve opened her eyes and gingerly pulled back some of her bandages. Her arms were indeed healed. It seemed as though they had been healing for a month, not days. She swallowed. The pus filled, oozing, inflamed skin was gone, but now rivers of rippled scars covered her. White scars, slightly reddened, crisscrossed her arms, and she knew most of her body would be the same. She tugged the rest of the bandage away. Even her hands were scarred. She stared at their ugliness in a moment of fascination and disgust, before a wave of despondence swept over her at her state. There would be no fixing this, not even with magic. Forever now, she would be marred.
Luke appeared beside her. “That’s amazing. You are healed!” A smile broke his face. “You are well?” he frowned at her sadness.
She nodded slowly. “I am well,” she murmured, “but I will never be as I was. I cannot rid myself of the scarring.” Feeling self-conscious, she pulled the bandages over her skin again and rubbed her arms as her cheeks reddened.
Luke clasped her hand, giving it a squeeze. “It doesn’t matter.” He caught her gaze and stared at her. “It doesn’t matter,” he repeated. “Only that you’re well.” He smiled, and her lips twitched in reply, but it was all she could manage.
They returned to the keep where the maids and healer were in awe of her strength and sudden recovery.
“By the grace of Eldarkind magic, I am healed,” she told them. It set muttered gossip aflame throughout the keep, but she did not care. Let them talk, she thought. One day soon, they will discover who I am, and it will matter not that one of their own has magic, for it shall save them all. If her plans came to fruition.
She insisted above their protests that she was well enough to continue in her duties, and sent them scurrying to fetch the captain of the guard and his deputy.
~
Whilst she awaited for their arrival, she had a brief respite, and took advantage of her solitude to scry Soren.
Her appearance shocked her. It was the first time she had seen herself in a mirror since before leaving for Ednor. She touched the places where her eyebrows had been, fingered the harsh edge of her hair, and traced the flame-like
scars up her neck.
Soren was equally appalled at her state, and more so when she revealed she had been in a much worse condition and would still be without magic to heal her. She showed him briefly the scars upon her arms to illustrate her point. Pity filled his eyes. She knew why, but did not dwell on it. It did not matter, now.
“Cousin. I am so very sorry for sending you into harm,” Soren’s voice was fervent, and Eve thought she could see a tear in his eye. “I feel responsible for this.”
She shook her head. “It is what it is, Cousin. You were not to know. I scry with you now because I am returned home to Arlyn. I—” Her voice broke. She cleared her throat. “I have never been so scared in my life. The danger is clear. I need to prepare our defences. I do not know if Arlyn could be next. The Eldarkind and the dragons barely fought Cies off, and I know we stand no chance. What I saw… What I experienced… I cannot… I cannot say. It is so horrific.” She swallowed. “I cannot let my people suffer the same. We must be ready to flee, for we cannot defend against these creatures. I apologise for failing in my duty.” She bowed her head to him.
It was Soren’s turn to brush aside her apology. He shook his head, and his mouth set firm. “You have not failed. Stronger men would have quailed where you stood firm. Your commitment to your people is noble and admirable. Your duty is to honour and protect your countryfolk. I understand that. They are lucky to be led by you now.”
They briefly spoke of the Eldarkind, and Eve detailed the destruction of Ednor in the raging fires and the casualties of the attacks.
“I left with little notice,” she added. “As a result, I have little understanding of Tarrell or Farran’s plans, but I know they would be pushed to succeed against further attacks.”
Soren sat back in his chair. “Even the Eldarkind and the dragons fail in this?”
She nodded. “It is no easy task, that is certain.”
Soren exhaled a long puff of disbelief, and pondered awhile. “This is ill news, indeed. I have not been able to scry with the Eldarkind for several days now. I imagine this will be the cause.”